


Mountains and Rivers

by Lay_Us_Down



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, Crossdressing, M/M, Original Character Death(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-13 11:52:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12983490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lay_Us_Down/pseuds/Lay_Us_Down
Summary: At the last part of the dream, Thomas caught hold of his hand and said, "Have you noticed, when our names are stringed together, it becomes Mountain and River."You are the snow-capped mountain while I am the rushing river.You are the snow falling freely every day of the winter season and I am the dusty cold embers of the fire that burned the night before.You are the name of every river that has flown down the mountain in summer, and I am the calling of the mountain far away.When we are together, we are called forever.





	1. 1 - 5

**So I have a picture for this but I can't upload it so please click on the link to see it > [https://www.google.com.sg/search?q=describe+brown+eyes&client=ms-android-oppo&prmd=ivn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi2yo_HwoHYAhUJO48KHXYtD0IQ_AUIESgB&biw=360&bih=566#imgrc=KHRNMwKVaz8N7M:](https://www.google.com.sg/search?q=describe+brown+eyes&client=ms-android-oppo&prmd=ivn&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwi2yo_HwoHYAhUJO48KHXYtD0IQ_AUIESgB&biw=360&bih=566#imgrc=KHRNMwKVaz8N7M:)**

 

**MUST READ**

**• Finished, will not be writing another chapter after Chapter 3**

**• This is written differently than most because I don't want too many chapters, so this will be separated into 3 parts (chapters 1 - 5 in Part 1, chapters 6 - 10 in Part 2, chapters 11 - 15 in Part 3) I might add in a bonus chapter but probably not**

**• Wartime period (absolutely fake, no such thing happened) North Korea against America (I'm so scared that I'll get jailed or something by the police for writing this, so there won't be a lot about North Korea or America)**

**• Rich kid / undercover agent Minho and Assassin Thomas**

**• I don't like the roles I put them in but what can I do about it? Once I write them they get their own life story and everything (weirdo right hereee)**

**• "Rich kid" as in a teenager who has a lot of money and will inherit a lot of money from his parents, not like the stereotype (I dislike the stereotype because I have a lot of friends who are rich kids but aren't snobbish or something like that)**

**• From what I've read, Thomas has brown hair and blue eyes. I'm going to make it brown hair and brown eyes here because it looks/sounds nice (sorry for those who don't like it) and I am a gardening person**

**• Minho is Asian(!) Black hair, black eyes. (I like to think of him as those rare people who have black eyes)**

**• Let’s give Minho a surname, he’ll be called Park Minho 박민호 ( <\- written in Hangul) because Park is a nice surname and I have a friend who’s surname is Park**

**• What have I done? Inspiration from real life wars, real life soldiers whom I look up to a lot, assassins, magicians (none in here), disguisers, the world**

**• There will be cross dressing in this fanfiction, but not a lot and not what you would expect**

**• MAJOR MAJOR MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH I WROTE IT SO BADLY THERE ARE NO FEELINGS NO KISSES AT THE END NO LOVE PROCLAMATIONS ARGH WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME I'M NOT A ROMANTIC**

**• Thomas is OOC? So is Minho? It really depends on what you think, but honestly to me Thomas is slightly OOC**

**• thank you for reading, please try to not back out of the fanfiction half-way through :)**

**_• “I do not want beaches, islands, a carriage or a castle_ **

**_I do not want ardent crowds screaming my name_ **

**_I do not want colourful_ **

**_Resplendent lights shining down on me_ **

**_I only want to, one day, make you proud”_ **

 

 

 

 

1

The first time Minho met Thomas was when he was running for his life.

It was dark and silent in the alleyway, a perfect place to think and worry about important things. His steps were light, quick — but not overly urgent.

His surroundings were black as ink, dark in the rather disturbing night scenery. There were no lights on in any houses and no sounds came from them.

It was… seven thirty? Seven forty-five? A time where one would hear the clinking of forks and spoons coming from warm and lighted houses, a time where one would see students carrying school bags walking home from their respective tuitions, a time where businessmen carrying briefcases would walk home from work to their respective families.

Now those families were the ones huddled under unstable roofs and locked doors. It was as if Wyoming was a ghost town, but Minho knew better. No one should be out after half-past seven during the war.

As it was, he slowly began to think of things: the invasion, the killings he'd seen, the golden sand in the beaches in Maui, the missions he had received, the mission he was on now, the thick white Siberian snow, Wyoming, America, everything under the sky, the dangerous topic of life and death...  
  
The silence of the night was broken when someone jumped down from the sky.  
  
Looking back, that person had probably jumped from the second storey of the block of flats that were to Minho's right. The impact wasn't large enough for him to have jumped from the sky.  
  
The person landed even-handedly, two paces to Minho's front. It had been a long time since he was scared by such a performance, people jumping from the sky, so he didn't stop his steps in time and took one more stride in the direction of the mysterious person.  
  
One hand gripped his wrist and flipped Minho so he was facing the way he came, and a second later he felt someone's leg slide underneath him and he was on the floor, flat on his back and too shocked for words.  
  
He grasped the leg of his attacker before he managed to move away. "Brother, let's talk nicely... don't be so rash..."  
  
The person shook off his slack grip but stood there, wobbling precariously as if he was on a tightrope. Minho stood up slowly, without making a sound, thanking his years of military training.  
  
Minho relaxed his mind, letting his senses flow. He imagined he was a river, stretching his consciousness out, imagining that if he went far enough he would be able to somehow find the reason who his attacker was, why he was here and what he had done before.

 

The other person, somehow sensing the change in mood, stiffened, as if making to move.  
Their attention was both diverted when the wails of police sirens cut through the tranquility. Black alleyways, jumping off a building (and seemingly landing without a scratch, even), a person running for his life, police sirens near them... Minho could guess 70 - 80% of what had happened just then, and who this person was.  
  
The other person's breathing was unsteady, taking in air with large, gulping breaths. Minho resisted a snort. That was definitely not the way to recover after jumping from a building.  
  
Suddenly, the clouds shifted and a ray of moonlight shone through the thick greyness, bathing part of the street an unearthly silver glow. Minho borrowed that weak, thin ray and, as his assailant raised his face, grabbed a look at his face.

  
If he was an assassin, his face definitely didn't fit the occupation. His face had a sort of magnetic pull to it, strong enough that you would never want to look away again. This wasn't a face that would (want to) be forgotten easily, especially with that pair of brown eyes. The whites of his eyes were very white, thank you very much, but his pupils were brown until they shone, like the bark of a tree, brown like earth's unfettered beauty, clear and distinct, warm, naive, similar to the ice on top of a volcano, where snow meets sunlight and melts, sparkling water into transparent vapour, being whisked away by the wind at a moment's glance.

  
His face was too out-of-the-ordinary, too different...  
  
too _pretty_ .  
  
Minho had seen his fair share of handsome and beauty, men and women alike, but he had never yet been so enchanted by a pair of brown eyes, never seen those flecks of gold that danced about in those chocolate pools. He couldn’t help but think, but wonder, that this… that separating this pair of eyes from absolute perfection was the sky, the clouds, the mountains, the seas.

  
Other than that, nothing.  
  
It was such a pity that, at the moment, that pair of eyes were filled with horror and wariness, such restlessness and uncertainty -- not so different from a wounded wolf’s, sleek and majestic, but with eyes filled with suspicion and worry, fear that if one should choose to attack it would have no means of defending itself.  
  
But in this world, in this war, there are many things that are a pity, such as Wyoming’s probability of falling into the North Korean’s hands, such as America being invaded by North Korea, such as the situation Minho was in now. There's nothing anyone can do other than ignore it, stay careful and move on.  
  
That person looked at Minho fleetingly, silently, carefully, suspiciously. His face was silhouetted by the building, so only a part was exposed to the weak light.  
  
Then he turned and ran off, his steps elongating from quick and fast footfalls to long, occasionally-unsteady strides. Many a time he stumbled and fell down, but quickly stood up again and continued his painful run down the alleyway.  
  
Hmm. Maybe he had landed with a scratch -- or a gunshot.  
  
Because of the buildings on either side of the alleyway, Minho couldn't see far into the darkness. Seeing the other leave lit a spark of a reminder in his mind. He might have missed his curfew home.  
  
If his memory was reliable, if his sources were reliable, the house above Minho would be the home of the young general the North Koreans had just sent to America, the one who boasted that he had many connections in the government. And the red and orange flames licking at the window panes would have been set by…

  
Minho gazed off in the direction of his attacker, but he was long gone, a shadow swallowed up by the darkness, another mere passerby in his life.

 

 

Park Minho 박민호 began to think that when he first met Thomas, he was debating about life, death and the fate of Wyoming, and Thomas had just jumped off from the second storey of a building, nearly risking his life then... which isn't quite a happy thing to think of, so he rarely came across this thought.  
  
And so in the long months after he first met Thomas, he began to debate on larger and more important matters, because Thomas had already given him the answer to his biggest question, it was much bigger than his life and his death, much bigger than life and death in general, much bigger than quite a few things.  
  
Perhaps there were some things that were coincidences, and some things that were fate.  
  
Minho just couldn't find the difference between the two.  
  
Such as, there were a thousand and one alleyways in Wyoming, and he just had to go into the one Thomas had jumped into.  
  
Fate.  
  
Such as, there were thousands of people living in Wyoming now, if he was slower by one step, or faster, Thomas wouldn't even have jumped down in front of him.  
  
Coincidence.  
  
Such as, if there hadn't suddenly been that weak ray of moonlight shining from the overcast clouds, he wouldn't have seen Thomas’s face, he wouldn't have remembered it -- and kept it in the frontline his mind constantly until today, occasionally taking it out and studying it.  
  
He thought, _At that moment I still didn't understand, didn't know I would meet you again, didn't know that life would twist and turn like a never-ending labyrinth, didn't know that to have fate, the price is never having redemption. A chance to do it again._ _  
__  
__I wouldn't have understood that I loved you._  
  
  
  
2  
  
*warning: the following might make people uncomfortable, please skip if you want* would hear the clinking of forks and spoons coming from warm and lighted houses, a time where you would see students carrying school bags walking home from their respective tuitions, a time where businessmen carrying briefcases would walk home from work to their respective families.

Now those families were the ones huddled under unstable roofs and locked doors. It was as if Wyoming was a ghost town, but Minho knew better. No one should be out after half-past seven during the war.

As it was, he slowly began to think of things: the invasion, the killings he'd seen, the golden sand in the beaches in Maui, the missions he had received, the mission he was on now, the thick white Siberian snow, Wyoming, America, everything under the sky, the dangerous topic of life and death...

The silence of the night was broken when someone jumped down from the sky.

Looking back, that person had probably jumped from the second storey of the block of flats that were to Minho's right. The impact wasn't large enough for him to have jumped from the sky.

The person landed even-handedly, two paces to Minho's front. It had been a long time since he was scared by such a performance, people jumping from the sky, so he didn't stop his steps in time and took one more stride in the direction of the mysterious person.

One hand gripped his wrist and flipped Minho so he was facing the way he came, and a second later he felt someone's leg slide underneath him and he was on the floor, flat on his back and too shocked for words.

He grasped the leg of his attacker before he managed to move away. "Brother, let's talk nicely... don't be so rash..."

The person shook off his slack grip but stood there, wobbling precariously as if he was on a tightrope. Minho stood up slowly, without making a sound, thanking his years of military training.

Minho relaxed his mind, letting his senses flow. He imagined he was a river, stretching his consciousness out, imagining that if he went far enough he would be able to somehow find the reason who his attacker was, why he was here and what he had done before.

The other person, somehow sensing the change in mood, stiffened, as if making to move.

Their attention was both diverted when the wails of police sirens cut through the tranquility. Black alleyways, jumping off a building (and seemingly landing without a scratch, even), a person running for his life, police sirens near them... Minho could guess 70 - 80% of what had happened just then, and who this person was.

The other person's breathing was unsteady, taking in air with large, gulping breaths. Minho resisted a snort. That was definitely not the way to recover after jumping from a building.

Suddenly, the clouds shifted and a ray of moonlight shone through the thick greyness, bathing part of the street an unearthly silver glow. Minho borrowed that weak, thin ray and, as his assailant raised his face, grabbed a look at his face.

If he was an assassin, his face definitely didn't fit the occupation. His face had a sort of magnetic pull to it, strong enough that you would never want to look away again. This wasn't a face that would (want to) be forgotten easily, especially with that pair of brown eyes. The whites of his eyes were very white, thank you very much, but his pupils were brown until they shone, like the bark of a tree, brown like earth's unfettered beauty, clear and distinct, warm, naive, similar to the ice on top of a volcano, where snow meets sunlight and melts, sparkling water into transparent vapour, being whisked away by the wind at a moment's glance.

His face was too out-of-the-ordinary, too different...

too _pretty_.

Minho had seen his fair share of handsome and beauty, men and women alike, but he had never yet been so enchanted by a pair of brown eyes, never seen those flecks of gold that danced about in those chocolate pools. He couldn’t help but think, but wonder, that this… that separating this pair of eyes from absolute perfection was the sky, the clouds, the mountains, the seas.

Other than that, nothing.

It was such a pity that, at the moment, that pair of eyes were filled with horror and wariness, such restlessness and uncertainty -- not so different from a wounded wolf’s, sleek and majestic, but with eyes filled with suspicion and worry, fear that if one should choose to attack it would have no means of defending itself.

But in this world, in this war, there are many things that are a pity, such as Wyoming’s probability of falling into the North Korean’s hands, such as America being invaded by North Korea, such as the situation Minho was in now. There's nothing anyone can do other than ignore it, stay careful and move on.

That person looked at Minho fleetingly, silently, carefully, suspiciously. His face was silhouetted by the building, so only a part was exposed to the weak light.

Then he turned and ran off, his steps elongating from quick and fast footfalls to long, occasionally-unsteady strides. Many a time he stumbled and fell down, but quickly stood up again and continued his painful run down the alleyway.

Hmm. Maybe he had landed with a scratch -- or a gunshot.

Because of the buildings on either side of the alleyway, Minho couldn't see far into the darkness. Seeing the other leave lit a spark of a reminder in his mind. He might have missed his curfew home.

If his memory was reliable, if his sources were reliable, the house above Minho would be the home of the young general the North Koreans had just sent to America, the one who boasted that he had many connections in the government. And the red and orange flames licking at the window panes would have been set by...

Minho gazed off in the direction of his attacker, but he was long gone, a shadow swallowed up by the darkness, another mere passerby in his life.

 

 

Park Minho 박민호 began to think that when he first met Thomas, he was debating about life, death and the fate of Wyoming, and Thomas had just jumped off from the second storey of a building, nearly risking his life then... which isn't quite a happy thing to think of, so he rarely came across this thought.

And so in the long months after he first met Thomas, he began to debate on larger and more important matters, because Thomas had already given him the answer to his biggest question, it was much bigger than his life and his death, much bigger than life and death in general, much bigger than quite a few things.

Perhaps there were some things that were coincidences, and some things that were fate.

Minho just couldn't find the difference between the two.

Such as, there were a thousand and one alleyways in Wyoming, and he just had to go into the one Thomas had jumped into.

Fate.

Such as, there were thousands of people living in Wyoming now, if he was slower by one step, or faster, Thomas wouldn't even have jumped down in front of him.

Coincidence.

Such as, if there hadn't suddenly been that weak ray of moonlight shining from the overcast clouds, he wouldn't have seen Thomas’s face, he wouldn't have remembered it -- and kept it in the frontline his mind constantly until today, occasionally taking it out and studying it.

He thought, _At that moment I still didn't understand, didn't know I would meet you again, didn't know that life would twist and turn like a never-ending labyrinth, didn't know that to have fate, the price is never having redemption. A chance to do it again._

_I wouldn't have understood that I loved you._

 

2

*warning: the following might make people uncomfortable, please skip if you want*

When Minho exited from the palace, it was already past nine at night. He hated cold nights like this, merely because he hadn't brought enough clothes from home to keep warm, but this time he had no choice but to go out. Tonight, he was going to the Samsons banquet, held in honour of their young lady turning twenty-one.

He would be going there to eat, to laugh and talk with the masters and have a good time.

— He would also be going there to steal something.

 

Banquets -- anything, really -- at the Samsons was always an elaborate affair. People would dress up in intricate gowns or formal suits. People would clink glasses and drink, people would mingle and talk politely, and there would always be that few people who stayed over in a bedroom.

An elaborate affair of the heart.

 

Park Minho 박민호 thought of himself as naturally handsome. Two pairs of long legs, a slender waist, long, thin fingers and a good-looking face normally occupied by a placid smile made up his body. He was told that when he went past his pleasant, sometimes-impassive demeanour (which only happened whenever he was drunk, which again did not happen usually)  he had a sparkle in his eyes and would become quite the life of the party.

He was polite around women, no matter young or old, and was the ideal husband for many, especially when they hear of his perfect grades and scholarships he had won to famous schools — in both America and Korea. Mothers and fathers of hopeful daughters, as they looked at him, they felt even more and more hopeful and positive that, perhaps, this man was to be their daughter's husband. It was no matter that he was Korean.

However, this person had one fault, but that fault could always be masked as a merit. When conversing with Park Minho 박민호 , he could act as both sides, pointing out miniature faults in both of them.

He moved like a fish in water through the crowd, smoothly and quietly. Even though it was such a large sea, there were so many other fishes it was a difficulty swimming through them. Wyoming was oh so large, and even though there were thousands of women here Minho could recognise 60 - 70% of them. That was Andrew’s daughter, her hair was styled differently today; that was Johnson’s daughter... she was a sight to behold. Rather attractive, and when she noticed Minho looking at her she smiled, oh so pleased with herself; and that was...

Park Minho 박민호 was stunned dumbfounded.

He didn't recognise that lady, which wasn't such a rare occurrence, but he did feel like he had seen her before, like they had met before...

… like her eyes were somehow so familiar…

— Which was a very odd feeling to have towards an unknown lady.

He was taller than the young lady by a head, and her skin was oh so very white, white like snow. She was thin, but not so skinny until you could see her bones. Proportionately thin, it seemed. She wore a white gown, but it the hem of it ended somewhere near her ankles. Different and longer than most, as more than half the girls her age at the banquet were wearing skirts that ended somewhere around their knees.

Her long hair was casually pinned back by a jade hairpin, simple but pretty. Standing there, surrounded by ladies with long, flowing hair decorated with exquisite hairpins and combs, she looked just like someone standing on the platform leading from 재덕¹ to 령하² on a misty morning, hazy, somewhat ethereal and not of this world. Her lips were parted slightly, but the bottom lip was raised slightly, giving her the pampered and bored look of many ladies in the room.

Minho swallowed, his mouth dry, before making his way over. "My lady..."

When she turned, Minho saw a spark of fright and (incredulity?) in her eyes, but it extinguished as fast as it lit and he believed it was a trick of the light or of his tired mind. "How may I help you, Mr?"

Park Minho bent so he was parallel with the floor and stretched out a hand gentlemanly. "May I have the honour of having a dance with you?"

 

"Miss... I don't think I know your name?"

"You can… you can call me Tommy."

"A nickname?"

"...Yes."

 

Actually, Thomas had gone through quite a few names in his life. Sometimes, his surname was Williams, sometimes it was Jones, sometimes it was Brown.

However, when Minho asked him his name, it was as if something divine, something otherworldly had opened his mind, and the name that tumbled out of his mouth was Tommy, an abbreviation of his actual name.

A name he hadn't heard in a long time.

A long long time ago, perhaps even in the prehistoric times, when he was brought into the world, he had not known how many names he would have to use, how many identities he would have to assume on the spot, because he was still innocent and young and white. He was white like the snow falling outside of the hospital, so he grew to love the colour white, choose the colour white over all others, all while something black grew inside of him.

It wasn't him who lied, and in the long months after that he began to take the memory out and fumble with it, turn it over in his hands like one would do with a Rubix Cube. He was quite sure of that, at least. He wasn't the one who lied.

_I have never lied to you._

_I have told you the truth from the beginning._

_And I will never lie to you._

 

 

Park Minho 박민호 himself had come across quite a few things in his lifetime, and rarely had any issue stunned or shocked him to the point that his mind was a complete blank.

Especially when it came to conversation, or cheap but pure entertainment, or people. He was quite experienced in those aspects.

But now, the situation he was in was turning out to be quite the problem of his life.

It was easy for him to read people, but this person was different, enigmatic. Minho couldn't, try as hard as he could, couldn't see through her.

A lively, quick tune was playing on the dance floor now, something happy and fast.

The other person looked completely at ease with the music, dancing happily. If you looked at her, you would assume that she was perfect from head to toe, that even her smile was completely flawless; not too pronounced but not too cold, and so at that moment she looked the most beautiful in the whole room.

Minho disliked doing nothing but sitting still while waiting for possible death, disliked losing control of the situation by getting distracted (which rarely happened, thus expressing his annoyance at the turn of events).

So, when he raised his head to look at her, he smiled before leaning and whispering one sentence in her ear —

"You shouldn't have let me look into your eyes."

His fingers wrapped themselves around her wrist.

Tommy's face was a mask of confusion. "What? I don't understand, did you mistake me for someone else?"

Minho's smile widened. "You're smart. Most people would have been floundering by now."  
  
"I'm sorry?"

She tried to pry her wrist out of his lockhold, but he didn't make any move to let go. Instead, Minho took a step closer and looked into her glittering brown eyes, all too familiar. "Even though there are so many questions I want to ask, but there's one that I want to know now. Have you noticed that I'm pressing on your pressure point?"

"When I was talking then, your pulse was beating too fast."

"You're lying."

 

3

Only when Minho reached the staircase then he realised he had taken the reins of control back into his hands.

Tommy ran quite fast, that was for sure. This was the second time he felt that. After he had seen through his disguise, he took one millisecond before disappearing.

Of course, in order to disappear he had to shake off Minho’s hand first, which took him quite a few fractions of that millisecond, and before he left even stepped on Minho’s toes once and painfully. He was wearing high heels, and it was so painful Minho had the urge to sit down there and stay there for the rest of the ball.

He wasn't fast enough to catch Tommy, of course, but he was quick enough to recover from his pain to see him run up the stairs... and after that, nothing.

Minho walked up the stairs slowly, so as to look like he was not chasing someone, and checked all the bathrooms, the library, the kitchen, the bedrooms, the study —

— Ah. So there really was someone else after the documents.

The early bird gets the worm.

"We really have too much fate together, Ms Tommy."

 

Tommy had taken off his wig and it was on the floor next to him, on its side like he had just taken it off in a hurry. Minho still found it amazing that he had been tricked. It had been so long since he didn't tell a man from a woman.

He stared at the hairpin Tommy was using to pick the lock on the drawer of the mahogany study table. Was it made of wood? No, it shone in the light. Metal.

The next moment, the hairpin was at his throat, right beside his jugular vein.

Minho raised his hand to show that he really was unarmed — save the gun pressing into his thigh underneath his dress pants. "I was just looking for the bathroom..."

"Stop lying, the upper level is already cordoned off to guests. What are you doing up here?"

"Then what are you doing here..."

Just after Minho had uttered the last syllable of that sentence, he felt the hairpin inch one more centimeter into his throat, deep enough to almost break the skin.

"Don't don't don't, I was following you up..."

"I'll guess you're here for the shipping documents too."

"Don't worry, I won't say anything, I'll help you keep it a secret..."

Yet again, his words were cut off, but this time by the sound of pounding footsteps heading towards the room they were in.

Tommy dived for his wig, and once he put it in place Minho tilted his head and smiled at him.

"Cooperate for a while. It's in the name of living two more hours."

He pushed Tommy until his back hit the wall, placed one hand on his waist and one hand through his hair before pressing his lips onto his.

The hairpin cut through the skin and Minho’s neck began to bleed. He felt it leave his body the second it got in, and Tommy was hard and stiff before relaxing and wrapping his arms around Minho's back.

(Blood had began to drip down on Tommy’s gown and some ran down his neck onto the starched white collar of Minho’s shirt, but then again neither noticed.)

But, that was where their cooperation ended. Tommy was relaxed, but there was a tenseness in his body not unknown to Minho. He felt it inside him too, every time he put on a bulletproof vest, every time he stepped into enemy territory, ready to trick and deceive and feel guilty for those innocent people he lied to. No one was relaxed during the war. Tommy was cool and cold, like a piece of ice unwilling to melt.

Because Minho could hear the guards coming closer with every step, and because he was surprised that Tommy wasn't taken by him like most of the others had, he prepared to unleash his (self-considered) superb kissing skills, directly stretch out his tongue in Tommy’s mouth and kiss him until his legs were weak.

Instead, when his tongue reached a set of teeth, it was fiercely bitten upon and Minho quickly retracted his tongue, feeling a metallic taste in his mouth and a stench of blood in the air, from his neck or from his tongue, he didn’t know.

Tommy’s left hand moved to pull Minho closer to him, but his left hand moved to hold the metal pin, now with the tip streaked with blood, somewhere around the cut.

Minho felt the now-warm metal press into his neck, dangerously near the opening, seemingly sawing into his neck.

This is the first time he felt like kissing was like fighting a raging battle. He felt like he was kissing a knife, and at any time that knife would strike him and he would die right there and then.

But, somehow in the middle of this dangerous kiss, he tasted a slight satisfaction.

 _I must be going mad,_ he thought. In all his eighteen years of life he had never tasted this type of satisfaction before, and the blood dripping from his cut began to flow faster as he resisted breaking the kiss and breathing. He was taller than the other by a head, and most probably older too — he was much stronger than Tommy was. That was good. He firmly pressed Tommy against the wall, trapping him in between him and the wall, and he couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

If it was a normal person, she would have been bowled over by everything, but Tommy was obviously not like a normal person, and he didn’t have any indication to surrendering. On the other hand, it seemed like he was trying to take the position of dictating the kiss. Since both people refused to let the other take control, at the end this wasn’t fit to be called a kiss, they each resembled fighting animals, using their tongues as weapons against each other, sinking into a never-ending war.

This kiss was too fierce, too heated, intense, that when the guards burst in with a “What are you doing here”, Minho was panting, and he had to breath in deeply two times before he could reply.

“Damn it! Are you blind?!”

Tommy had buried his face in the crook between Minho’s shoulder and neck, perfectly acting the role of a frightened lady caught doing something she shouldn’t have been doing.

“Mr Park?” The guards looked at his face, recognising his Asian features immediately. “Why did you come up here?”

“We… we just wanted to find a place without any people!”

“I’m sorry, but this level is restricted to guests, please come down.”

“Tch³, fine.”

He felt the person in his embrace move slightly.

— His moves really were very fast, and Minho counted it lucky that the hairpin hadn’t grazed his throat when Tommy moved. This was the only reasonable thought in his mind, when he saw those two guards fall.

 

4

The danger was over -- for now. Tommy swiped the back of his hand over his lips before continuing to pick the lock on the drawer, ignoring Minho.

The latter gazed at the fallen guards, marvelling how Thomas had used the phrase _“two birds with one stone”_ so literally. Or, maybe, two guards with one hairpin.

“Ms Tommy really is very unpredictable. How did you manage to move so fast?”

“You really do talk a lot nonsense.” Tommy said rather amiably, unlocking the drawer with a flourish.

“It’s open.”

 

Tommy ran towards the desk, delving into the messy stack of papers and more papers. Mr Hughes didn’t have a very fit body, and it was a surprise that he managed to get to this important a post because he wasn’t neat, didn’t have very good manners towards his staff and was the unofficial public enemy number 15. Tommy very smoothly reached for the shipping documents in the messy stack of papers, seemingly recognising its unassuming similarity to the dozens of other papers in that drawer.

He raised his head to look at the clock. It had been twenty minutes since the guards had just came, and maybe ten minutes after he had knocked them out. It would probably take another ten minutes for the two unlucky guards to be found.

But ten minutes was already enough, the gown and high heels really were inconveniencing him, the heavy makeup on his face (to disguise his male features) was also making him feel extremely uncomfortable.

Tommy took off his wig and was about to change back into his old clothes before remembering that there was another person in the room. He was too focused on the task at hand before that he had completely forgotten that there was another living man here.

Minho was standing silently at a side, watching with slight fascination how Tommy meticulously sorted through the papers after he found his task’s objective. A mark of an OCD person, a mark Minho could understand. It became a habit, after too many break-ins. Always make it neat and seem that nobody had touched anything -- only that someone had, but that was for later.

Tommy turned and their eyes met, only to be followed by a bang as the bathroom door closed.

Somewhat five minutes later, Minho heard a sound of restlessness from downstairs, and when he pressed his ear to the door, he heard the muffled sound of boots walking on polished wood, heading for his door.

There won’t be enough time, he thought. Returning to the bathroom door, he shouted, “Someone’s coming up now!”

No one replied to him. Minho breathed in deeply, letting the warm air fill him before kicking open the door.

Tommy was standing in front of the basin, seemingly washing off his makeup. His whole face was covered with water droplets, and red and black colours mixed with the water, slowly traveling down his face. When he heard the door open with a small clash of wood meeting porcelain, he ran a hand down his face to wipe away the rest of the makeup before turning over, revealing a clean, delicate and ( _pretty_?) face.

Minho was stunned for a moment when he saw Tommy’s true face. He didn’t expect that when he opened the door he would see such a familiar yet unknown face.

Tommy had changed into a plain white shirt with a Sherlock-like overcoat and long black pants. The darkness of the night combining with the poor lighting once again shadowed his face from distinct sight but it illuminated his tall, lean body figure. He had a good posture, straight and tall, no slouching. His face was pretty but abstinent, and standing there made him quite enchanting fascinating. Minho couldn’t help but look at him for longer than supposed to.

Tommy took a towel and rubbed away the excess water on his face. “Someone’s here? Then it’s my turn to leave.” He passed Minho as he exited the bathroom, and under the better lighting (and close proximity, but Minho refused to believe that) he discovered something interesting.

“Huh? You seem to be around my height.”

Tommy turned around and patted his shoulder, shooting him a smile. “I just reduced my bone.”

The way he smiled made his eyes turn into crescent moons, two inverted smiles, naive and innocent, at least about five years younger.

Minho was rendered speechless by this new revelation. Tommy was two different person when he was smiling and when he was not. He felt in his heart that this was a bit different than most, and it took him half a day to realise that this was the first time he had seen Tommy smile so freely.

He had actually never seen him smile before.

“Thomas. It was nice to meet you.”

He opened the window and lightly jumped down to the ground, disappearing instantly.

Minho stood at the window looking for a good while before suddenly putting a hand into his suit’s inner pocket. It was empty. He had originally wished for, when Thomas was escaping, to swipe the file out of his hands. He was so distracted as to overlook two important details when Thomas came out of the washroom: one, he had most probably kept the file in his coat pocket. Two…

See, his smile really was meant to distract him, it had an agenda behind it. He was merely over-thinking.

Minho wasn’t particularly fond of why he felt a shred of disappointment by it.

 

5

When Minho returned from the banquet to his house, it was already early morning / extremely late night. His mission was as well as failed, but it wasn’t much of a loss, just so long it didn’t fall into the North Korean’s hands, anything was better.

He also had a sense of faith in Thomas, since he didn’t seem very North Korean-like, even though he had no proof that Thomas wasn’t Korean.

(He secretly wondered if Thomas trusted him too, that was why he had just said his name like that, or if it was just all a plan to distract him again. Thomas, Tommy, might not even be his real name / nickname.)

That night was much too thrilling, so exciting until it was almost a shame when the guards burst in on him, lying with his back flat on the floor, seemingly having fainted. When they revived him, Minho blinked dazedly for a while before pouring out how she had played with his feelings and even knocked him unconscious while committing her crimes.

“She’s… she’s a thief!” Minho was so angry his body trembled with rage, and his eyes held hot tears from spilling forth.

He had always prided himself on his acting skills. The guards immediately bought his story and comforted him, calling his driver to go to the banquet to pick him up. It was only when he reached home that he realised his back was breaking out in a cold sweat. Perhaps it had been that his nerves were too tense for a long time, and he had only relaxed when they were fifty meters to his house, so he felt like his whole body was floating, as if he was stepping on air, levitating even. He felt so relaxed (tired?) the minute he reached home he threw himself onto his bed and fell asleep.

In his adrenaline-induced sleep, he had a very… new… dream.

In his dream, there was no war, no ice-cold refusals and beastlike fights. He dreamt of thousand-year-old snow-covered mountains melting when he touched them, iced-over logs of wood sprouting fresh green leaves, that everything was gentle and soft. He dreamt of a glittering spring, a misty summer, a dancing autumn and a winter where flowers grew and sparkled under the sun as snow drifted down.

He saw the thousand-year-old lake’s first ripple as the first peach blossom of a hundred years drifted to land on the glass-like surface, the pink petal settling into the water, and he asked him, why are you crying?

When he woke up, he found that it was he himself that was crying, that a patch of cloth on his pillow was soaked through.

 

 

 

A few days after the incident, Minho went to Jake Miller’s mansion to talk about business. On the front, Jake Miller dealt in tobacco, but he was actually a under-table dealer in arms, weapons both military and not. He had already sold off quite a few national treasures, and in this year alone he already expanded his mansion by quite a few acres.

Minho never had good feelings about this type of person, but it was his father’s wishes. He also needed a little bit of experience in this aspect of business dealings.

Miller was very warm to him, perhaps because he owed Minho’s father his life and a great sum of money, perhaps because he always had a liking towards Minho. “Minho, you’re here, please sit! Would you like anything to drink? Right, I forgot to say, my son just came back from Japan. It’s been a long time since he’s been in Wyoming, I will have to ask you to help show my son around again, take care of him a bit.”

“Of course.” Minho replied in kind. Only then he noticed that there was a person standing beside the window, his face turned towards the glass. He wore a (tailor made?) white button-up and black pants, somehow with a Japanese style to it Minho didn’t recognise. He turned his head when he heard Minho’s voice, clear and concise.

Minho was stunned yet again when he saw the person’s face.

He had only ever seen that face twice: first, in a darkened alleyway, and second, in front of a sink at the banquet. The two times were both in poor lighting and they were both rushed, two times were both just a mere glance under life and death’s circumstances. This was the third time they met, and also the first time he, under good lighting and peace, saw him.

The person by the window smiled at him.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Stephen Miller.”

It seemed like this was Thomas’s twin. Minho looked closely at him, scrutinizing his every detail from top to toe, but he couldn’t find any difference between Thomas and Stephen. His facial features, height, body type, even his body posture was exactly the same.

Was this his real identity? The real Thomas?

But Minho immediately discarded that thought, because if Stephen really was Thomas’s true self, being an assassin is already extremely outrageous and not something that a distinguished privileged child would choose to be. Reducing his bone is another thing someone like Stephen wouldn’t do. The brutal training would have to start from four to five years old, and even learning it was illegal, and only a child poor enough and desperate enough would choose to learn this type of thing. The Millers owned a multi-million dollar enterprise, and Stephen was his only son, how could he let him learn this type of things?

As he was thinking, Minho began to see a few differences. Thomas’s childhood mustn't have been very happy, seeing by his character, a matureness far beyond what Minho presumed to be his age -- so his eyes didn’t have any warmth in them, very much similar to a cocked arrow.

Stephen was different — at first glance, one could tell immediately that he had been pampered and loved dearly since young. His eyes were full of innocence and curiosity, not the wariness of Thomas's. Thomas's smile wasn't similar to Stephen’s at all, when the latter had smiled at him, it was the highest level an innocent smile could get, like a white piece of paper, blank and pure.

Could it be that there really were two people who looked identical to each other?

Minho smiled and nodded at Stephen. “Nice to meet you, I'm Park Minho. You were in a boarding school at Japan?”

“Yeah.”

_Even the way he replies is innocent._

“You arrived yesterday? I heard there was a bomb as the airport, are you okay?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine. It was already over when I reached.”

“Oh…” Minho said thoughtfully, “That's good.”

 

 

On the way home Minho's driver noticed that his employer seemed a little out of sorts that drive. He was unusually silent, not reading or using his phone or anything, and he kept gazing out the window. He couldn't help but ask, “Sir? Sir! Are you alright?”

Minho finally came back to reality. He turned his head from the window. “Shi-won ah… do you really think that there can be two people who look exactly alike in this world?”

Shi-won thought for a while. “Yes… twins?”

“But it doesn't seem like twins…” If they were twins, why would Jake or his wife want to give up one and take in the other?

A sense of trappedness returned to him again, this was the second time he felt it, the first when he met the mysterious Ms Tommy and danced with her. He felt absolutely baffled by the whole circumstance, as if he was bound by never-ending chaos, surrounded by a thick fog shrouded in mystery.

Minho felt a splitting headache coming along nicely. He closed his eyes and rubbed the sides of his head.

“Shi-won ah, help me do a background check on two people.”

—— “This one is Thomas, he's a registered assassin. His file's extremely clean, it's obvious his agency highly values him. He's quite famous too, I've heard of him before. From what I've heard, he's quite smart, probably amongst one of the top assassins in his agency. Or in Wyoming. He does everything neatly, and he has never failed in a mission before.”

—— “This one is Stephen Miller, Jake Miller's only son and the heir of Miller Enterprises. Mr Miller dotes on him a lot, and he's always been in one of the top elite schools. There's nothing much about him other than that he went to a boarding school in Japan and just came back.”

“Because you told me about how they seem to be identical, I went to find a maid who had previously worked at Mr Miller's household before. She said that Stephen did have a twin older brother, but this is going to involve the Miller family’s business now. She said that when Mrs Miller was pregnant, Mr Miller went to someone to calculate his child's fate. After he calculated, the person said that if she gave birth to twins, they must only leave one in the Miller household, or else Miller Enterprises would crash and fail. So, once the older twin was born, they took him away to an orphanage. He's older than the younger twin by three minutes.”

“There shouldn't be a lot of people knowing about this, but looking at it this way, the twin that was sent to an orphanage must have been Thomas.”

Minho looked at the file in his hands, and Thomas stared up at him. The lighting for the picture was absolutely terrible, and only a sliver of (moonlight?) shone thought, illuminating part of Thomas's face. It was as if he had purposely chosen this lighting for the picture — it was a direct ray of light, splitting a line down his face, and both sides were dark while the light showed one of his eyes, a part of his nose and the side of his mouth. His expression was — well, expressionless, and his mouth was set in a straight line. His file was a plain A4 sized paper of white, no words on it at all. Similar to the person who was subject to it, mysterious, unreadable.

“Now I know.”

 

TBC


	2. 6 - 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minho is tall and elegant; would Thomas seem inferior to you?

**• Haven't been paying attention in English class. The grammar and spelling might be (very) off.**

**• _"I'm just not brave enough to let you know_**

_**That I will always take care of you and make you laugh** _

_**I regret not having told you how vital you are to me** _

_**Listening to you act cute and watching you sleep serenely until we're old"** _

 

6

Since Mr Miller wanted him to take care of Stephen, show him around a bit, and Mini has always been one to obey his elders, he decided to visit Miller’s house again after a few days.

When he arrived, Stephen wasn't inside the house, but rather outside on the grass patch, soaking in the rare sunlight. His puppy lay behind him, his tongue lolling out of his mouth, looking both extremely blissed-out and dead tired.

His smile was especially bright, a smile only people with truly bright hearts could smile, so pure and naive he looked even more childish and immature. In this world, there aren't many people who can smile like this.

Minho stood at a side, watching him, before walking up front.

“Ah, you're here!”

“You were waiting?” At Stephen's shake of head, his dog rolled onto its back, trying to get up to greet Minho. The latter smiled freely. “Good day, William.”

“Haha, isn't he cute?” Stephen reached up and ruffled its brown curly hair.

“Yes.” Minho looked at him for a moment before continuing, “you're very lucky.”

Stephen looked up, and a shadow crossed his face before disappearing the next second, but Minho saw it clearly this time. “Yeah, I feel that I am quite lucky. Don't tell me that Mr Park doesn't feel happy?”

Minho transferred his gaze to the garden’s lush green grass. “There are some people who aren't as lucky as you are.”

Stephen frowned, as if he didn't understand his words. “What does that mean?”

“Nevermind. You haven't been back to Wyoming in a long time, haven't you? Let's go take a short walk."

 

 

As Minho walked with Stephen on the road, as Stephen ran around like a curious child, looking at everything and saying _oh, I haven't seen that house before, I haven't seen that tree before, Wyoming’s really changed hasn't it?_ , the older couldn't help but notice that it was only them, save a few policemen and people wrapped in thick clothes, heads tucked in their collars, on the street.

Suddenly, a small child, from behind them, came running out in front on the street. His face was adorned with a wide smile. He was running too fast, and in the end ran head-first into Stephen's swinging arms. The latter bent down and helped him up, patting him on his back, and the child ran off, his hands raised up in the air, a lollipop clutched in his right fist.

For a long time, Stephen stood there, gazing at the fading image of the child, and a mysterious look appeared on his face, a look Minho recognised faintly.

“Thinking of something?”

Stephen came back to reality and smiled at him. “Nothing.”

“Really nothing?”

“Really nothing.” He scratched his nose slightly. “I was just thinking of my childhood.”

 

 

The next evening they both attended a banquet held by the Johnsons, in celebration of Mrs Johnson turning forty-five. Because it wasn't a mission, because he didn't need to look for any documents and meet any mysterious people who disappeared when they wanted, Minho decided on a fully relaxed mood to take to the banquet.

(It stuns him sometimes, when he has to choose different feelings for something that so obviously points at one.)

Minho, out of habit, arrived ten minutes early. As the banquet hadn't officially started, and not many people had arrived, Minho accepted a glass of champagne before finding a place to sit down. After walking for a full day yesterday, his legs still felt slightly aching and numb.

He stood there, watching the hall he was in gradually fill up with attendees. The crystal walls of the dome covering the flickering candles set in the elegant chandelier cast different hues of colours in every direction, making the scene of prosperity and peace seem somewhat otherworldly, perhaps somewhere from the sea.

And then he saw Stephen enter the hall, wearing a black suit and tie, identical to everyone else but unique at a certain angle, to a certain person.

At that moment, the candles flickered multi-coloured lights splaying everywhere in the hall, casting blue, green and turquoise, and the chatter and mingling of people sounded like waves crashing on a sandy beach at night, calm, peaceful, background noise, and his eyes crossed five, ten meters, through the sea of people, to meet his.

At first, Stephen’s face was a perfect blank, and his eyes scanned the crowd, as if he was looking for someone. When their eyes met, he sensed a flicker of — something — before he smiled and waved his hand, making his way to him.

He, too, smiled, raising a hand to wave at him, and the other slowly moved in circles, swirling the golden alcohol.

He and Stephen exchanged some polite greetings, talking about the weather, Mr Miller's business, and the like, before Minho suddenly said his name.

“Stephen.”

“Yes?”

Minho bent his back until his upper body was parallel with the floor, before very gentlemanly extending a gloved hand: “May I have the pleasure of having a dance with you?”

Stephen was shocked for a moment, before a hint of a smile crossing his face. “How can a man dance with another man?”

“Give me some face.”

Minho raised his head, to look at Stephen, and saw a glimmer of familiarity before it disappeared and was replaced by a smile.

He phrased it so Stephen couldn't reject him unless he really didn't have any manners in him, and one dance didn't seem to be too much of a thing to fuss over, so Stephen only hesitated slightly before slowly extending his hand and meeting Minho’s.

Minho saw Stephen's face, under the lighting of blue and green, display an outline of warmth. His whole person seemed like a carving out of white jade, poised and refined, fine and smooth, simple and unaffected.

He and his brother were two completely different people, that was what he was thinking, as one of his hands rested on Stephen's waist and the other grasped his hand in a relaxed sort of way.

Stephen's hand was held at an odd angle — as if he didn't want Minho to touch his wrist, even.

The latter smiled.

The music continued playing, and in the abundance of dancers, nobody noticed two people, both about the same height, about the same age, of the same gender, moving slowly to the music, together.

The music continued playing, and after a minute or so, Stephen rubbed his nose, asking rather uneasily, “If you want to dance, you should dance, don't keep staring at me.”

Minho smiled. “My apologies. I was thinking of something.”

“Oh?”

The older stared into the other’s eyes, noticing that in the deep brown there was a waver, heavily disguised as shyness.

“Yes.”

He stepped closer.

“The two of us really have too much fate together.”

“Ms Tommy.”

Stephen had a clever look of confusion on his face, but Minho saw a trace of shock hidden in his eyes. He asked, hints of worry laced with perplexedness, “What?”

Minho smiled wider. “You still want to pretend?”

Then Stephen tried to twist his hand out of Minho’s hold, but the latter's fingers had closed in a deadlock around his wrist, not different from the second time they met.

“You've gotten the wrong person? What Ms Tommy?”

Stephen's eyes were wide and innocent, staring at Minho with an increasingly-frightening look of unknowingness.

“I haven't.” Minho spun him around and locked him in an embrace, dipping his head to near his mouth to Stephen's ear. “Your disguise is perfect, I almost didn't manage to figure out who you were. Do you know how I found out?” He raised his hand, limp from shock, and brushed his thumb over the skin. “When I touched your hand, I felt a callus in the skin between your thumb and your index finger.”

“This is a hand that has used guns for many years, not a hand that belongs to a pampered rich son.”

“Am I not correct?”

“Ms Tommy?”

Stephen — well, he should be called Thomas now — Thomas was completely immobilised in his hold. Minho saw his ears begin to turn red, red until the tip of his ear… and then he moved slightly, about to unleash his 100% cannot fail invincible unconquerable unmatchable destined to die immediately move — stepping on the victim’s foot.

However, Minho moved targeted foot back one step just in time. “I'm not one to fall for a trick twice.”

Thomas, completely flustered and exasperated, glared angrily at him. He most likely knew he wouldn't be able to escape anymore. Looking around at the surroundings, not many people had noticed them, so he forced down the level of his voice (he desperately wanted to shout at Minho then) and hissed, “What do you want?”

“Don't worry, I won't expose you. I'm just curious, how did this happen? How did you become Stephen Miller? And where is the real Stephen?”

Thomas stared at Minho for a moment before casting his eyes down to look at the floor, shadowed by the guests, and sighed deeply.

“He's dead.”

 

7

From child to adult, Thomas has never been a lucky person.

He had realised he was unlucky from the moment he managed the trick of remembering. When he was young, when he was still in the process of learning those painful-until-about-to-die trades, he had watched children his age running across the street, one hand tucked in an adult’s hand, one hand holding a lollipop, and he himself was still worrying about if he would manage to hit the red circle on the stupid multi-coloured target board fifty times, and whether he would be able to get dinner if he did.

Well, to be honest, he had actually learned that piece of information by complete accident, when he was kneeling on the gold floor of the temple, being punished for a mistake he had made that cost something he didn't know. It was in the middle of winter, a heavy storm was going on outside, and no one had remembered to close the door when they left him there. The wind blew in through the door, inviting rain to enter as well, and he was wearing a thin white shirt with short black pants that were torn at the hem. All he had for protection from the rain was a single piece of newspaper that they had left for him in case of the rain, and even that had to be flat underneath him so the blood on his scraped knees wouldn't stain the gold floor. He bore through the pain of his stinging knees and the the numbness of his back, which was bearing the brunt of the rain, and gazed at the golden chair where deities were meant to sit and pass wisdom to the monks.

He prayed, and wisdom was passed down to him.

He kneeled there for very long, praying for another piece of wisdom, an assurance that he would meet someone who would take his flyers and pat his head and say _“good boy, Thomas, you did well today”_ , so long that when they came to call him to stand up, his legs had already lost feeling and thus he learned, while both legs were numb, how to reduce his bone.

When he was young, Thomas hated winter, because it was bitterly cold, and he never had enough clothes to keep warm, even though they told him _“learning to reduce your bone is easier to do in winter”_. When others laughed and played in the snow, admiring the heavy cold powdery substance, he stayed at the side, watching all of this impassively. He only wanted to know when this wretched snow would end and the sun would warm things again.

Even though all these things were in his distant childhood, his luck hadn't changed all these years.

He must have met his natural enemy, for the first time he met Minho, was the first time he had ever been injured during a mission, and for a few seconds he was sure he would die in that sea of fire.

The second time, he was forced to wear that despicable gown and hair, and they seemed to have forgotten his size, because his whole body, especially his joints, were in pain from that tight dress for a full two days, and his feet were also pinched into a red, sore bruise that was still there… and the worst was that he was discovered by the even-more despicable Park Minho.

This was the third time, and he had to keep this position as the pampered son of Jake Miller, all while barely-knowing who he was acting as, and again he is seen through by a contemptible Park Minho.

 

Exactly, his unlucky star.

 

 

When Stephen’s plane landed at Jackson Hole Airport, Thomas was mixed into the crowd there, being pushed along by the waves of people, a cap firmly on his head, shadowing his face. The person he was supposed to assassinate today was a high-up official from North Korea -- Kim something-and-other.

The explosion didn't disappear as fast as it had happened. Thomas depended on his slim figure and quick, nimble limbs to escape to a hiding spot and remain there until the detonation was over, successfully avoiding any major injuries. Some people weren't as lucky as him, giving up their lives as soon as the bomb exploded.

When the explosion had finished and the fire had somehow ebbed away, he dug through the charred remains of the dead, along with many families crying and screaming out loved ones names. The bomb had ruined his concentration on the target, and he had no idea where he was, let alone whether he was alive or dead.

Right when he was fully focused on finding the North Korean official, his concentration was broken again.

By someone's face.

At that moment, he felt that the world had never been more fake, never been more unreal to him. Cold sweat dripped down his neck, down his whole body, soaking his clothes in a moment.

— That was his own face.

At that moment, he began to doubt his existence. Perhaps he was a spirit, having died sometime during his cruel-but-necessary training. His hand found his ribcage, then a faint beating in the left part of his chest. Not a spirit then.

But he calmed down very fast, using only a few seconds to recuperate before crouching down and examining the person’s body, feeling for any item he might have that would confirm his identity, all thought of his North Korean official dropped at that point.

He found a wallet, deep in the inner pocket of his coat, and a ID card.

The deceased's name was Stephen Miller.

 

His younger brother.

 

He stood there blankly. Suddenly, he felt that the world was a just a section of black and white, every single thing that could distract him in his surroundings had disappeared, and even the nose-irritating smell of gunpowder the explosion caused was gone.

This blank feeling lasted until he felt someone call him.

No, wait, that person wasn't calling for him. He was calling for Stephen Miller, but the voice was definitely meant for him.

The Miller’s chauffeur stood outside the yellow-and-black striped line, waving frantically at him, obviously gesturing at him to go back to the mansion with him.

When he had sorted out the meaning of the scene in front of him, Thomas had originally planned to turn around and leave without a sound, but as he turned he suddenly struck on something: Jake Miller was an under-table dealer in arms and ammunition, with thousands of connections to North Koreans, if… if he managed to enter the Miller family…

— This was a golden opportunity. If he missed it, he would never have a chance like this again.

When he raised his head, he had already prepared an expression of excessive shock, the type where tears were shining at the corners of his eyes. He stumbled out, looking around his surroundings, panic-stricken. When he caught sight of the chauffeur, his eyes lit up and his expression was one of enormous relief.

The chauffeur guided him through the human traffic to the car: “Young Master, are you alright?”

Thomas just nodded once, a slight tilt of the head, his tears dropping, as if a great grievance had been burdened on him.

 

 

“So it was like this…”

“Everything was going smoothly, until you appeared.”

Thomas raised his head to look Minho in the eye. His eyes reflected the green and blue hues, so it looked like he had the sea in his eyes, foam thin and slight on the tip of enormous waves, his nose was sharp, not different that that of a steep, treacherous cliff, and his lips were thin like a blade, the sharp cutting edge. It really is a face that would allow normal people to take one look at and faint away.

This person really is unexpected trouble.

When Minho noticed Thomas’s gaze lingering on his face for longer than usual, he couldn't resist asking, “You wouldn't want to kill me, would you?”

“Maybe I would.”

Minho immediately raised a hand up, exhibiting a perfect image of someone in court swearing that he was speaking the truth. “Don't don't don't, I promise I won't say anything about you, who knows, I might even be of help to you.”

As Thomas was looking at him, a smile suddenly appeared on his face.

“Why are you smiling?”

Thomas used his index finger to point at his palm. “You look like a lucky cat.”

 

8

After that incident, the frequency of Minho's visits to the Miller house increased.

Jake Miller only thought that Minho was showing his son around, being friendly to him, helping to integrate him into the new Wyoming society, and so he felt that he couldn't thank Minho enough.

Of course, he doesn't know that every time Minho and his son meet, there will always be a different opening line (to a bickering session), and that opening line won't be filled with happiness or excitement… it's filled with disgust and exasperation.

“You're here again?” Thomas frowned, raising his head to look at Minho.

“I'm here to help you, see, the only person who knows your true identity is me, so in front of me you won't need to act anymore, isn't that relaxing?”

“I think it'll be more relaxing if you go away. What if I just like to act?”

“Haha — don't talk back to your elder. I'm a year older than you. I heard that you like music? Let's go see a performance.”

Thomas sat on the chair, not saying a word.

_A performance? In a hall?_

“I'm saying the truth, smile a bit, okay? Let's go."

 

 

On the road home from the performance, Minho suddenly remembered he had something on that night. “I have a dinner tonight, let's go together?”

“I'm not going.” Thomas said, his tone level pressed deep. “I have some things to complete.”

Minho turned his head, looking at Thomas for a few seconds. “Okay, then help me choose a tie. I need one for tonight.”

 

 

When they reached the tie shop, he began to regret deeply that he hadn't brought any ties from home. Facing them was a whole wall of ties folded anyhow inside cupboards hammered haphazardly on the stone wall. He felt that his OCD self was about to kneel over and die — Boss, why can't you just arrange those ties over there neatly?! Why couldn't you hammer the cupboards in _rows_?! It looks so uncomfortable!!! I want to cry!!!

Minho was so anxious he began to straighten the ties closest to him. He turned his head to Thomas, who was at the next stack of ties. “Which do you think is nicest?”

“This one.” Thomas said immediately, unhooking a tie from the row — no, _cupboard_ — beneath the one he was at. Minho noticed, with some surprise, that Thomas was checking that all the tags on the tie were placed at the back, and refolding the ties.

It was a navy blue tie, with white dots speckled in neat rows of three. Looking at it made Minho’s OCD self calm down slightly.

“I feel that, the colour blue… it suits you.”

When Thomas said this, his eyes were shining, sparkling, like all the stars in the night sky above them had fallen into his black eyes.

As Minho looked at Thomas, he suddenly felt his mood lift suddenly. He went to the counter, where a man sat smoking and reading the newspaper.

“Give me ten ties of this.”

“...”

The man's eyes widened. “Yes -- yes sir!”

 

 

At the banquet that night, Minho, like normal, successfully entertained every guest he saw with the correct greetings they wanted. Holding a delicate tall glass of red wine, he circled the ballroom, taking a step or two with a lady before fading away subtly.

After he finished one round of greeting, he kept to the sidelines of the dance floor, sipping wine and staring off into the couples dancing, not really noticing them.

The wine he consumed was definitely not from Wyoming, it had a different taste to it, a bit more intense, a bit more irritating on his taste buds. The wine he was accustomed to was diluted and he normally ate a piece of cheese before drinking wine, but he has forgotten in the process of hurrying, out of habit, to the banquet. As he sipped it, the red liquid slid down his throat, and he realised that maybe it wasn't that intense, as it fermented into lively shows in his esophagus. A little bit sweet, even.

He stood there, soaking in the raucous atmosphere, but while everyone was dancing and merely having a good time in the extraordinarily-lively banquet, a certain person stood to one side, feeling a wave of emptiness wash over him, going away but leaving its mark all the same.

_I seem to sort of miss Ms Tommy._ He thought that to himself, before thinking that he himself was having quite the wit.

 

 

Just when the party was at its peak, a string of gunshots one after one sounded from outside. The banquet was immediately thrown into a tornado of turmoil, as screams and shouts rose up from the panicked crowd, accompanying the crash of bullet meeting glass. In this sea of chaos and disorder, Minho pushed away the people in front of him, running towards the sound of gunshots.

He escaped the terrified atmosphere through a back door he didn't know was there. Looking around his surroundings, as the gunshots had ceased, he analysed his choices before hurtling into a dark alleyway. One was most fitted to hide there, especially if one was going to assassinate a high-ranking general.

And, above the alleyway there was nothing but black sky and glittering stars and the tall windows of the banquet hall, and as Minho drew closer, he saw a dozen wrecked windows with jagged pieces of glass sticking out from the pane on the outer wall of the hall.

Just as he had expected, when he was not more than a few steps into the alleyway, he was stopped by a hard and cold object pressed into the bone of his hip.

“Don't move.”

The voice of the owner of the gun was clear and cool, different from the deep hoarse voices he had grown accustomed to that night.

Minho raised his hand up, the tips of his fingers straight and pointing at the heavens. “It's me.”

He moved before he even finished his words, turning to face his assailant.

Thomas had just killed someone, and the beads of blood on his hands had yet to dry. When he heard Minho's distinct Asian voice, it took him half of a second to place his right hand — the hand totally covered in blood — behind his back.

Minho was dressed elegantly, with the tie Thomas chose for him around his shirt collar. He wore a seamlessly tailored suit, and his whole body was scented with the smell of red wine and perfume.

Thomas suddenly felt a tempestuous wave of inferiority, as he looked at Minho. It was the same feeling as when he had watched him walk towards him, through the crowd of guests, heading towards him… while Minho was dressed smartly in the same tailored suit, and he was in a long white gown with heels that made him realise for the first time what troubles women had to go through just for a simple banquet.

“Won't you move your gun aside?” Minho looked, slightly reluctantly, at the gun pressed at his waist. “It's very easy to discharge a bullet accidentally like that.”

Thomas didn't move. “Why did you run out here, aren't you worried of being suspected that you were the one who killed him? Go back.”

Minho didn't move either.

Thomas pressed the gun deeper into his flesh and bone, and the head of the gun rubbed against the starched outer jacket of Minho’s suit, threatening, “Are you deaf? I told you to go back!”

At that moment Minho moved. The gun pressed at his waist was distinct and clear, the cold metal a stark reminder where he was and what he was doing, and that he could lose his life if Thomas so much as moved his finger backwards.

But he, too, felt the subtle tremble of the muzzle of the gun.

He tilted his head down, smiling, to look at the gun pressed against his waist, before stepping forward (rather confidently, he might add) and pressing his lips on Thomas's.

The muzzle pressed deeply into his flesh, only stopped by the bone — there would be a bruise tomorrow, but Minho didn't mind that.

Thomas was probably caught unawares by the sudden kiss. In the first second that he finally realised someone’s lips was on his, he felt Minho’s teeth graze his lips, in the second second, he wondered if a person in this circumstance would stow the gun or press the trigger, in the third second, he raised his leg and stamped on Minho’s shoes angrily.

Minho reached for Thomas’s right hand and drew it up in the space between them. One was bloody and one was not.

“You're hurt, trembling like that already.”

“That's not my blood.”

“I don't even know if it's your blood or his blood!” Minho nodded at the man a few feet away, face pressed flat on the floor. As the alley was sloping downwards, miniscule and thin trickles of blood reached their shoes, travelling through the crevices in the rain-soaked pavement.

“How can you recognise my blood?”

“You…” Minho felt that he and Thomas could argue until daylight. “Have you gone mad from blood loss?”

He gave Thomas his jacket, making sure the sleeves were tied around his neck so it wouldn't drop off, before crouching down. “I'll bring you to a doctor.”

“No.”

“Quickly.”

“It's so late, I really should…”

“Go back home? You think that you can be like how you were before? You're the son of Jake Miller now, how are you going to explain yourself, going home like that? Everyone still thinks you came to the banquet with me. Quickly, I'll tell my servant to go to your house and say that you're not going home tonight, you're spending the night with me.”

Minho’s argument was reasonable, he had no way of refuting his statement. Thomas hovered for a while, considering his options (he did it on a daily basis) before relenting and climbing onto Minho’s back.

Carrying him, Minho moved forward, walking step by step through the black alley. Moving upslope, while carrying someone on his back, took him quite a long time. Their surroundings were silent, everyone having escaped the banquet hall, as silent as the deepest depths of the sea, it seemed.

Minho felt rather queer, himself. There was a certain change to his mood. Before, he was relaxed and smiling, at ease with the world — and now he was tens _er_ than normal, at the thought of what could be Thomas's blood and in turn Thomas's injury. In the twinkling of an eye the feeling of feasting and revelry, contentedness and peacefulness, now felt far from him. All that was left was the crescent waxing of the moon.

As he walked, he suddenly felt something warm and wet on his neck.

He asked, “why are you crying?"

Thomas shook his head defiantly, his hair brushing against Minho’s neck. “I'm not.”

Minho sighed and changed the question. “Does it hurt?”

“It's not very painful.”

“Are you sure?”

“...slightly.”

“Bear with it for a bit.” He said in a coaxing tone. “We're nearly there.”

Minho suddenly felt very sad, as if in the still darkness, the unacknowledged tears that fell on the skin of his neck.

 

 

The underground clinic didn't have any anaesthetic. All throughout the cleaning of the wound Thomas bit on a cloth, not making a sound through the whole process as cold sweat beaded on his face.

Minho wiped it away with a cloth. “You can call out if it hurts.”

“Used to it.” Thomas didn't spare him much words, and Minho couldn't see his expression in the dark.

When the treatment was finished, Thomas’s adrenaline then caught up with him. He lay directly on the bed, eyes closed, breathing calm and steady. Moonlight filtered in through the window, and Minho rose from his sitting position to cover Thomas with a blanket.

His eyes landed on a dark spot beside Thomas's cervical spine, on his neck.

The only blemish on his pale skin.

A brawl deep into the night? It was too small for the muzzle of a gun.

The result of an operation?

Or a mark from birth, because implications had occurred. Less-experienced doctor in a low-class hospital.

Minho’s hand crept up to his neck. _You know, I have the same on my neck,_ he thought. _We do have quite a lot of fate together, don't we, Ms Tommy?_

He originally planned to tell him that when he woke up, but as he was too tired, he fell asleep first.

And, in the end, later forgetting about the whole thing.

 

9

Wyoming entered winter, and soon it's first snow began to fall. Because of the cold, the two of them weren't allowed outside. Minho stayed inside with Thomas, watching the snowflakes float down gently.

Minho looked at the falling snow outside and said, “I saw the snow in the Siberian plain before, when I was studying in the Soviet Union⁴. It really was very pretty, stretching out to the horizon, boundless and limitless. Everything was white.”

In fact, Thomas has never really liked snow, but the way Minho described it made it suddenly seem like a beautiful picture, and he began to find it less… annoying.

“Really?”

“You'll have to see it yourself, the snowflakes really were amazingly big. A few branches on some trees were completely covered in ice, and in the woods there are a big part of the trees where they are covered in nothing but ice.”

“Ah…” If Thomas thought about it, it really did seem like a beautiful picture. “A pity I haven't seen it before.”

Minho said, “I'll bring you to see it one day.”

Thomas did nothing but smile.

“Really, we can just take a single flight there. From the window, you can be the whole plain of snow already. I'll bring you when we both have time.”

Thomas replied, “Okay.”

Later… Thomas wondered when was later, when the war would end, if he would even live to the end of this. He never put any faith in these type of things.

He looked outside the window, through the frost beginning to cover the glass, at the white world outside.

 

 

A few days later, Thomas received a letter about his next mission. He had to travel to Colorado. This time, the mission was bigger than most, and he couldn't fail it. There would be a boat reaching Colorado in three weeks time, and on it would be some high-ranking North Korean officials, a few Party members and ammunition.

His mission would be to blow up the boat.

The Thomas now had restrictions on where to go, and it took him three days of pleading and pouting and a good deal of alcohol for Jake to allow him to go on a trip to Colorado.

When Minho went to visit Thomas, he found him in his room, the servant rushing about helping him pack, and he himself directing the servant, a image of a pampered and spoiled rich man's son.

After Minho fully appreciated Thomas's stunning "overindulged rich man's son" performance, he asked, "I heard you're going to Colorado?"

Thomas raised his head and smiled at him sweetly. "Yeah, I'm going to find my friend."

It was that smile again, with the curved eyebrows and sparkling eyes, and Ming thought to himself that Thomas really did know how to put on a performance, how to look as naive as an angel, as if he didn't have anything weighing down on his heart.

Minho smiled in kind.

"What a coincidence, I'm also going to Colorado."

 

 

Actually, Minho really had a reason to go to Colorado — it was because his father had invested an amount in a business there and wanted Minho to go there to oversee... well, something that Minho wasn't listening to. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to show up there. However, he was supposed to leave for Colorado in a month's time, but when he heard Thomas was leaving soon, he just shifted up the date.

Thomas sent the servant away before turning to Minho, a deep crease between his eyebrows. "You're going to Colorado for...?"

"Business reasons."

"You could have went earlier, you could have gone later, but you're _so coincidentally_ going to Colorado now. Did you think I'd believe what you're saying?"

"Can't I have my own tasks?"

Thomas's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you doing here, with me? I don't even know who you are and what you do, and you don't seem like someone in the military. Are you in politics?"

Minho looked at him, nodded and said: "Yes, and I hope you and I will carry out the meaning of the American dream and fight in the war and also possibly become the next US Presidents. It'll be joint."

"Get lost, this wasn't in our agreement." Thomas rolled his eyes at Minho, and on seeing his laughing face, grew serious and said: "I'm not joking, it's better if you're not stained by the muddy waters I'm going into."

"If it's that muddy..." Minho raised an eyebrow at Thomas. "I want to go even more."

 

10

It was around midnight when they reached Colorado, and it was deep winter, but even though they both were bundled up in thick jackets and two layers of pants each, it was still bitterly cold. In the end, the person who was supposed to fetch them didn't arrive, so they had no choice but to walk around and find a hotel to stay in.

It must have been too late, because they didn't see a single taxi cab anywhere on the deserted streets. The street lamps cast a dim light on the street, making their shadows grow long and short and two and three. It was only after they walked for half-and-hour or so until they saw a cab, and it was only the cab. The driver was nowhere to be seen.

Minho pointer at the yellow car. "There."

"It's no use, the driver's disappeared."

"It will, just get in."

One of the servants had packed them each a small lunch to eat on the way to Colorado. Thomas looked suspiciously at Minho, wondering if there were any drugs in his sandwich, but in the end he still got into the taxi, half believing that Minho would think of some fantastical plan and half wondering if they had to spend the night in the taxi and what the driver would think if he opened the door, ready to start a day's work, and see two boys in his taxi — having spent a full night in there but still refusing to pay, because Thomas sure isn't going to and he's not sure Minho will.

Just as he sat on the leather, he felt an involuntary judder from the vehicle. Minho's voice drifted in. "And... we're moving!"

Thomas, in the cab, felt the taxi's tires move on the frosted ground, and a smile crept onto his face, letting him feel a sense of elation and freedom that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Minho, pushing him, went in a circle around a stretch of road circulated around a fountain. Wiping the sweat off his brow, he shouted, "Is the great master satisfied now?"

"Not satisfied, the standard of this ride really is too low for someone like me." Thomas called back, laughter taking away a part of his sentence.

"You're so hard to please!"

Minho's face appeared in the window, and Thomas rolled down the glass. "No, actually, I'm quite happy."

"Really?"

Thomas used a finger to brush away a droplet of sweat on Minho's cheek.

"Really."

 

 

The next day, Minho went to carry out his task, because his father said that this high-ranking American official would be present and he must wear a suit, gel his hair, some other things Minho didn't pay attention to (again). Just five minutes after he left the hotel they were staying in, Thomas received a note pushed in from under the door. After reading the scrap of paper's content, Thomas looked around furtively (out of pure habit, they had a room on one of the higher floors and Thomas was quite sure no construction worker could read the paper from where they were at) before wrapping the fire detector with a wet cloth and burning the piece of paper.

At lunch, he went to meet the other.

He looked like a very young man, perhaps younger than Thomas, maybe even a student. As soon as he opened his mouth, bad news sprouted from it: "Something unexpected happened."

"The original plan had at least ten people in it. In the end, we discovered an undercover agent impersonating one of ours, and we don't even know who it is, so they're all useless now."

"Then how many useful people are left?"

"Two."

Thomas looked at him. "Me and you?"

"Me and you."

The older was silent for a while, before continuing: "There's no more time, and very little manpower."

The boy tapped his brain. "Basically none. We're not very good physically, but mentally..."

" _Mais oui._ "

The other smiled at a gentle reminder of his home country.

"We'll just have to give it out all."

"Correct."

Thomas was silent for a while, and the other was too, both thinking of the future and what lay in there for them. Finally, Thomas straightened and poured two full glasses for each of them. "Let's drink... it's going to be our last glass."

The clinking of glass meeting fragile glass sounded as they touched their cups with each other's. "To victory."

Thomas drained his glass, feeling the burning alcohol slide down his throat and explode into flames, and as he gazed out the window at the cloudy sky above them, he murmured, "to freedom."

 

 

Minho spent a long time at the company, having been held back by the American businessman just as he was leaving and having a few cups of alcohol and small talk (strained on his side), and when he arrived at the hotel it was already late evening. Upon seeing that he was back, Thomas set down the newspapers he had in his hands and went to pour a glass of water for him.

"How was it?"

"Okay. The manager's a bit muddle-headed but a hardworking person. The American businessman behaves like a terrorist and probably is one." Minho recounted the painful small-talk and the many cups of wine, although half-way Minho said of a stomach condition that didn't allow him to drink too much alcohol.

It was warm in the hotel room, as after Thomas went out he felt a perpetual chill about him, so he turned up the thermostat. When Minho took off the winter jacket, Thomas noticed the scar on his neck, outlined by his hair. It hadn't seemed to start fading with time.

He reached and his fingers touched Minho's neck. "The scar's still there."

"You weren't the one who cut it."

Thomas said, rather thoughtfully, "If I had known earlier, I would have cut deeper."

"What?"

Minho's eyes widened.

"Haha... drink some water, I'll tell you our plan."

Minho, holding the glass, felt both flattered and shocked. "When did you suddenly become so good to me?"

Thomas paused. "Am I usually bad to you?"

"No... just not that level of good." In fact, it could be bad, his neck, foot and waist injuries were still there.

Thomas said: "I figured it out already, I'm going to treat you a little bit better now."

"How about later?"

Thomas smiled at him. "From now on, I'll treat you a little bit better."

 

 

Thomas's smile was warm, gentle, and Minho suddenly felt as if everything was dim, as if the light had suddenly been blocked by something translucent, he always felt that Thomas was a cold person, that no matter how hard he tried he would still be the never-thawing snow at the top of the highest mountain.

But now it didn't seem that his efforts were all to waste, because Thomas's smile was like water, warm and soft, caressing one's skin oh so gently, and he felt his mental state growing ever so slightly confused...

And then he closed his eyes, dazed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ⁴Yes. Soviet Union. Don't report me. Russia is a nice country. Actually, just forget whatever I said before.
> 
> And, please...

**Author's Note:**

> ¹ Chaedŏk Station (In North Korea)*  
> ² Ryŏngha Station (In North Korea)*  
> ³ I refuse any bad swearing. I refuse. 
> 
> *Minho is not a North Korean, he is a South Korean, but he has heard his mother tell him before about how his parents met in Chaedŏk Station and took the same train together to Ryŏngha Station, falling in love with each other. His father described his mother the way Minho described Thomas.


End file.
